Blaise nodded as he climbed into bed “This month’s simply whizzed by!”

“Yeah. It’s been fun.” Harry sleepily replied, cuddling Reggie: the practically comatose python had challenged Isis to a race today and, even though the land-snake had no chance of beating a sea-snake in the water, he had given it his all.

“You and Professor Snape going away for half-term, Harry?”

“No, Dad said I should really use this half-term to get involved with some inter-house activities” Harry yawned “But he did tell me that, if I like, I could stay in his quarters for part or all of the week.”

“You going to?” asked Draco. Harry usually spent at least one night out of the seven, usually Saturday, sleeping in his father’s suite. Slytherin had designed the Basilisk’s Quarters to be a regular warren, with snug, comfortable little bed-chambers branching of the Master Bedroom. Harry loved staying with his new Dad; they cooked and ate supper together and, afterwards, played a game of chess, practiced spells or simply sat and talked. To Harry, whose Aunt had never allowed him to ask questions about his mother, hearing stories from Severus’s childhood never failed to delight him.

“Yeah, I expect so” grinned Harry.

“After all, we wouldn’t want the giant squid to get lonely” chuckled Blaise. Harry’s room, the water-chamber, had a ceiling which, like the Great Hall, had been enchanted to show what was above it. However, in this case it was the lake and the Squid always waved a friendly tentacle as it passed overhead, much to the other Slyth’s amusement.

“Haha” responded Harry. “Night, guys. Night Reggie.”

“Goodnight” Draco, Blaise and Theo responded.

“Night Harry” muttered Greg, who was already half-asleep.

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite” added Vin, rolling over and burying his face in the pillow.

oOoOo

It had not been a good year, thus far, for Peter Pettigrew.

He had chosen the Weasleys for one reason and one reason alone, and it certainly wasn’t the quality or quantity of food or care. Peter knew that Voldemort would, one day, return: the degradation of the dark-wizard’s looks and mind clearly indicated the creation of a horcrux. Thus, Peter had determined to keep tabs on the Potter boy, as a good cache of information would guarantee a welcome back into the fold. Naturally, Harry, son of James and Lily Potter, would be a Gryff and the Weasleys were as Gryffindor a family as any. Their last son, in particular, had shown all the bull-headed stupidity which, in the right light, could be seen as bravery and loyalty, and, thus, Peter had taken quite some pains to endear himself to the cack-handed twit, earning himself many a bruising and hungry night in the process.

And then the Potter boy had the sheer bloody audacity to end up amongst the Serpents!

This galling development made life rather difficult; sure, Peter picked up rumours, little factoids, sometimes useful, sometimes not, but he knew next to nothing about the Potter boy. In the Gryff dorms Harry was only spoken of as a twat, a prick and a slimy, brown-nosing, teacher’s pet, save for when the Longbottom boy lost patience. Yet words spoken in anger should, at best, be taken with a pinch of salt.

Time, however, was running short for Peter Pettigrew: the rumours were darker, the whispers more frequent and, one day, when Peter ventured into Ron’s school bag- a place no sensible creature would venture without dire need- he has smelt Voldemort on Quirell. The scent had been so powerful that Peter knew that they were one and the same.

There was nothing for it: if Peter wished to survive Voldemort’s return, he had to be useful and, to be useful, he had to find some dirt on Potter.

And to get dirt on Potter, Peter needed to find his way into the Slytherin Dorms. Therefore, that afternoon Peter Pettigrew had, again, stowed away, this time in a NEWT level Potions student’s book-bag and, on reaching the dungeons, had hopped out and, having scurried into a snug corner, waited for his opportunity. Eventually, a child left the Serpents’ Nest door open for one of his friends, who was a few steps tardy, and Peter slipped inside.

Creeping behind the dark wainscoting, under low, plush armchairs and around the thicket of children’s legs, Peter stalked out Harry bloody Potter. The boy was sitting with a boy whose moonlight blond hair clearly proclaimed him to be the son of that slippery bastard Malfoy, playing chess, as comfortable and relaxed as you please. Occasionally, a thin, coltish looking boy, whose hair fell in brown curtains, would lean over and mutter tips to Harry.

Peter smiled, revealing sharp, yellowed, chisel teeth. Nott and Malfoy’s brats really were friends with Potter, even inside Slytherin Dorms, hmm? Useful to know. After all, Malfoy was very, very rich so perhaps, for a fee, Peter would hold his tongue. Nott, on the other hand, would be a tender of good faith, an acceptable sacrifice to the Dark Lord’s insatiable bloodlust. Yes, Peter would do very well out of this information.

At around half-eight the common-room started to clear and Peter, fearing detection, returned to his snug crevasse behind the ancient wainscot. When Harry’s king was smashed by Malfoy’s bishop, the boys shook hands and, gathering their chess-pieces, wandered off to the first Dormitory to the left.

Peter settled down to wait; he’d give it an hour before venturing into the Dorm and, hopefully, by that time the little bastards would be blissfully asleep and totally unaware of the scratching as Peter bit and burrowed his way through the panelling, probably under one of the beds, to make himself a nice hidey hole.

Peter Pettigrew’s first mistake was that he hadn’t considered that Slytherins, while not stereotypically cat people, were most definitely snake people.

Lulled by the warmth of the roaring fires and soft, slow ticking of the clock, Peter slumbered until, finally, the clock struck one.

Scuttling over to the Dormitory door, Peter morphed into a human and, quietly unlatching the door, shrunk back into a rat.

Peter looked around the large, square room, his button eyes glinting with malevolent glee. He had made it. He was in the same room as the wretched brat who had, literally, ruined Peter’s hopes and even his life by destroying Voldemort mere hours after Peter had chosen to nail his dark colours to the mast. Peter had always loathed the snotty little brat when he was small; always mewling, shitting, spitting screaming. It had taken all Peter’s self possession to maintain the façade of a kindly, indulgent uncle, to coo and smile at Harry and pretend that he was not resisting the urge to smother the stinking creature with it’s own faeces. A death which, now, seemed rather too merciful to Peter, considering all he’d suffered because of the little wretch.

Overcome by curiosity, Peter padded towards the pillow upon which lay an unruly head of dark hair which could only belong to that arrogant poser James Potter’s son.

oOoOo

Reggie, having recharged his batteries after a nice long nap, was feeling rather peckish. It had been a good three days since his last mouse and, although his species were designed to gorge themselves once a week rather than eat every day, Reggie’s swimming-races against his bestest friend Isis had somewhat worn the lining off his stomach.

Yawning, the small python wriggled his way up Harry’s torso and looked at the child’s face, attempting to discern the tiniest sign that his young master was awake enough to justify Reggie hissing *“Are you sssleeping?”*

Alas, Harry was obviously sound asleep so, with a rumbling tummy, Reggie coiled up, telling himself that it would soon be dawn.

However, just as the young snake was drifting to sleep, the most delicious smell met his nostrils. Warm, gamey, fang-achingly yummy. The scent of rat.

Reggie opened his eyes: there it was, a plump, bright-eyed little rat with twitching whiskers- and a few short inches from Reggie’s grasp. Better yet, the little creature appeared not to have noticed him. Reggie opened his jaws in a wide grin: it had been too long since he last hunted live prey.

However, just as Reggie lunged for the rat, it changed, morphing into a plump, grubby man with sandy hair. This was Peter Pettigrew’s final and greatest mistake.

Reggie reared back in horror. A strange-smelling adult amongst the hatchings? Not good, not good at all.

*“COBRA! Cobra in the nest!”* the little serpent spat at the top of his voice. In her tank, Isis reared up, showing her needle-like fangs, and even little Sal, who was only an insect eater, started to squiggle his way across the floor to Harry’s aid.

Harry opened his eyes and jerked into a sitting position. The intensity of the malevolence, cruelty and hatred in the man’s small, watery eyes was overwhelming. For the first time in over six months, Harry gazed into the face of someone who wanted him dead.

A little known fact about Magic is that it is, to some small, yet significant degree, sentient. Not sentient like a human or a dog or even a trout but sentient as a plant is sentient: when we cut grass, we enjoy the fresh, verdant scent. From other plants' point of view, however, the chemicals released from the bleeding stems warn them to start looking small and unimportant.

Magic responds to the wizard’s emotions: a child cornered by an angry mob, for example, will fervently and desperately pray that they won’t get hurt. Their Magic may interpret this as ‘I want to get out of here’ and, therefore, will dissapperate the child to a safer location. On the other hand, it might merely vanish the weapons from the mob’s many hands, earning the child a swift and often deadly beating. Magic is not always very clever.

However, Magic is capable of learning. If a defence works once, it is remembered; stored in a memory without a mind.

One year, Harry had accompanied Vernon, Petunia and Dudley to a zoo. It had, in fact, been the first time Harry had spoken in Parseltongue and Dudley, amazed at the behaviour of the Boa Constrictor with whom Harry was conversing, had pushed Harry hard, causing him to fall and skin his knees. The magic infusing every atom of the boy’s being had thought it was under attack and, recognising the snake as a friend, had vanished the barrier between the Boa and Harry’s tormentor. Dudley, scared witless, had run away, leaving the magic victorious.

Now Harry was terrified, in mortal fear of this large, blond man whose vicious intent was clear in his beady eyes. Behind Peter, Isis raged in her tank, desperate to defend Reggie and his boy. Only the glass stood between the water-snake and Harry’s enemy.

And suddenly, it didn’t.

Released, the water in Isis’s tank gushed out in an enormous wave and, on the crest of this wave was a female Hydrophis Belcheri, whose friend’s heart-brother was in mortal danger.

There is but one way to deal with a cobra in the nest.

Isis bit down on Peter Pettigrew’s shoulder, releasing every drop of poison in her body and, having never bitten, the water snake’s reserves of deadly venom were full. Peter thrashed and screamed but Isis held on, biting, injecting, punishing this foul creature who had the audacity to threaten defenceless hatchlings. Reggie wound back, forming his body into a tight ‘S’ and sprang, latching onto Peter’s neck with his fangs, then coiling tightly, squeezing the life from the rat-man’s body. And little Sal bit and bit at Peter’s ankles, his blood singing the ancient ballad of vengeance fulfilled.

When Severus ran into the boy’s dorm seven-and-a-half minutes later, it was to find six terrified children, a very dead Peter Pettigrew and three jubilant serpents, who wore their enemy’s blood like a robe of state.